


Sacreligion

by slothprincess



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Smut, Tarn juding everybody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothprincess/pseuds/slothprincess
Summary: Tarn’s loyalty might belong to Megatron, but his body belongs to Shockwave. In which two awful robots have a friend-with-benefits relationship.





	Sacreligion

**Author's Note:**

> Tarn is surprisingly fun to write

  
    Tarn scowled, as he checked his chronometer for the third time in less than an orn. An ion breeze wafted through the air, lazy under the warm Cybertronian sun. It had yet to reach the zenith of the afternoon, and so the temperature remained an agreeable degree. It would have been hard-pressed to find a sour-tempered bot in such pleasant weather, but Tarn managed with his usual zeal. He shifted a pede. Shockwave was late. Again. As long as he’d known him, the scientist had never been the punctual sort. No, that was a cumbersome social convention best left to lesser bots. Tarn resisted rolling his optics, it was a phrase he’d heard many times, and also, why he had stopped inviting Shockwave to the opera.   
      
More than likely, the scientist was skulking about in that labyrinth of an underground bunker experimenting on Primus knows what. He sighed, surveying the park once more, as if expecting the distinctive violet form of Shockwave to suddenly materialize from behind a bush. When it didn’t, he rose, subspacing his data pad (The Tyrannical Rose: A Complete Timeline of Lord Megatron’s Rise to Power, pocket edition with special forward).  
      
Already other bots were gathering in the park, enjoying the unusually balmy weather; picnicking, basking in the sun, displaying blatant undecepticon-like behavior, like the traitorous traitors they were. Tarn shook his head, ignoring several grave infractions of The Decepticon Code already transpiring. He had an appointment, and unlike certain others, he lauded himself on his diligent conduct and impeccable manners. Tarn cast a pointed look at the park-goers, as if to say, “I can’t be bothered now, but you’re all marked.” And with one last glower towards a Decepticon seemingly enjoying his Energoncone too much (Unseemly!), he descended the metal stairs into the base.  
      
Sure enough, he found Shockwave, bent over a petri dish in sub level G, scattered data pads and half-drunken energon cubes surrounding him in haphazard piles. In the corner a pot, that’s contents had long-since boiled over and evaporated, sat on a still-lit burner, permeating the room with the overpowering stench of burnt alcohol. At least nothing was on fire. The danger of living a pure-logic lifestyle being if a mess didn’t negatively affect conditions, cleaning it was rendered an unnecessary action. If Shockwave noticed his presence, he gave little acknowledgement, choosing instead to continue highlighting a few additional notes in his data pad.   
      
Tarn cleared his throat, as he inspected one of the discarded cubes. The congealed mass of energon sloshed lethargically, it’s components separating into milky, sludgy layers. He wrinkled his nose. Absolutely disgusting.  
      
“You’re late,” Tarn said, clicking off an unused burner.  
Shockwave barely looked up, as he adjusted a meter reading. “My apologies, Damus. I am at a rather critical apex.”  
      
Tarn grit his dentae, claws digging into his palms. Those who still insisted on using the name ‘Damus’ had a habit of not making that mistake twice. Usually because they were never afforded the opportunity. One of their empty frames, in fact, still adorned his wall, face sculpted in a grotesque terror to last all eternity. It had not been a quick demise. He had made sure.  
Tarn opened his mouth in half-hearted protest, but the correction died in his throat. He had always been, ‘Damus’ to Shockwave. Millenia ago, hearing his real name, when all the rest saddled him with ‘Glitch’ had meant everything to him. Now it brought nothing but painful remnants. Still, Shockwave cared little for Tarn’s expanding list of monikers, code names, and handles, even less so for the increasingly impotent threats Tarn lobbed at him if he insisted on continuing. Tarn shook his head in defeat. If he planned to enjoy the following orn in any capacity, it was best not to rise to the bait.  
      
“Shall we get started, then?” he asked, voice oozing power, a honeyed, syrupy sweet sound.  
      
Shockwave’s audials perk in consideration, but he continues his calibrations. Inwardly, Tarn groaned. Keeping Shockwave’s attention was difficult enough, during optimal times. Surrounded by a lab full of distractions, most bots would already have long given up, retreated into the arms of a passionate lover or perhaps a service droid to fill their needs. Instead Tarn narrowed his optics, he was not most other bots.  
      
He began humming, imbibing more of his talent throughout the words. The flow of power building in his stomach, a welling fluttering within, as his power swelled, saturating the room. It charged the air with a prickly static. Even before the incident, Shockwave had been slow to rouse, always too engrossed in physics to engage in anything physical. Tarn had tempted him away from his studies with only lightly-powdered words and airy promises. Now, it took nearly all his ability to crack the crippling wall of indifference that permeated the other bot. But it was worth it. Always.  
      
Tarn crept up behind Shockwave, lacing his hands around the other bot’s hips. Shockwave’s spine stiffened, as Tarn traced lines down his inner thighs, digging into the seams, deft fingers pinching. Shockwave continued typing, but could not hide his body’s baser reactions, his optic dimmed as he pressed into the touch.  
      
“You’re quite the distraction today, Damus,” Shockwave admits, setting his stylus aside. And Tarn knows he’s gotten off easy. Usually, his lips would be firmly wrapped around a spike, before he even got a twitch from the scientist.  
      
Shockwave’s meters and data pads disappeared hastily, each swept into their respective cubbies. A current of unusual eagerness spikes their fields. With a twist, Tarn shoves Shockwave against the counter, forcing his legs open.  
      
“You can spread them further than that,” he growls, grinding his knee into Shockwave’s pelvis. Instinctively, his stance widens, as Shockwave presses his aft back, as if presenting himself.  
      
Before the war, Shockwave had had his own private menagerie of lovers and playthings, bots he had partaken of quite readily. Tarn was not his only one, he had always known, even if it had never quite been said aloud. Now, though, only he was afforded this privilege. Only he witnessed Shockwave coming apart in the throes of passion. A bounty only he deserved, a reward. For his loyalty, of course.   
      
Tarn pressed a freshly manicured servo against Shockwave’s valve plate, caressing the panel with delicate swipes, “Open up,” he purred. Heavy petting was great for average bots, but both he and Shockwave had sustained heavy exterior nerve-damage. Neither of them would derive intense pleasure with their panels still locked away.  
      
Shockwave ground fervorously into his touch, ignoring his request. A trail of lubricant dripping tremulously from behind his still stubbornly closed panels, rolling down his thighs in large, sticky globs. Bending down, Tarn propped up his mask, just enough, to devour the saccharine remains, wiping it away with large swathes of his tongue.  
      
“Open,” He commands.  
      
Shockwave’s vents hitch, as his panels slide open instantaneously, quivering with self-denied arousal. Tarn finished swallowing the last of the lubricant, licking it off his servos, before gazing at the quavering valve before him. Shockwave’s valve was swollen, a pulsating oceanic turquoise that matched little of his current paint scheme.       
      
“I’m the only one allowed this pleasure, aren’t I?” Tarn asked, digits once more roving the seams of the scientist’s array, teasing at the empty hole.  
      
“Others are—” Shockwave replied, groaning at the introduction of digits inside him, “Others are unnecessary.”  
      
To this, Tarn gave no reply, optics instead flickering towards the single indigo jewel hanging from the plush valve, it glimmered enchantingly under the fluorescents, “I see you still have your piercing.”   
      
He tilted his head, admiring the gem before giving it a vicious yank, feeling the delicate metal tug as Shockwave gasped. Such an enchanting reaction. He continued fiddling with the piercing, observing with mirth Shockwave’s aborted attempts to reply.  
      
“Removing it n-now would—ugghn—be, would be pointless. And—a—a waste of time better suited for aahh other opportunities.”  
      
“You always did like it a little rough,” he teased, twisting the piercing. The piercing’s metal was cool despite the heat between them. Silky and smooth against his touch, it glittered. He gave it another ruthless tug.  
      
“P-please,” Shockwave pleaded, pawing at Tarn’s still closed panel. Tarn smirked. Though loathe to admit it (he wasn't that kind of monster), he enjoyed the desperation, the neediness eking out from the normally stoic scientist. It was always the reserved, quiet ones that gave it up the loudest. Even just thinking about the hapless cries roused his spike from it’s housing.   
      
His panel cycled open as his spike extended, already drooling transfluid as it unfurled, thick and pulsing. His servos extended like lightning, seizing Shockwave’s face, or rather lack of. Tarn’s servos tightened, coiling around Shockwave’s neck, lifting and dropping him in one fluid movement onto his spike. Shockwave’s valve encompassed his spike, tight, yet suppliant.  
      
Shockwave shuttered, optic flaring with pleasure as Tarn ground into him,“harder.”  
          
Tarn paused mid-thrust,“Are you sure?” He cocked his head, “It’ll leave paint transfers.”  
Shockwave rolled his optic in dismissal, fins lowering in annoyance, “harder,” he repeated.  
      
Tarn shrugged, ramming his spike further into Shockwave’s valve, again and again. The tip of his spike drilled forward, butting against the thin membrane of Shockwave’s gestation port. With every thrust the barrier stretched, weakening with every rut and ram. It was not something he personally saw the appeal of, but Shockwave had always responded well to it, so he indulged.  
      
Shockwave’s vocals dissolved into static beeps, as he lifted his hips in rare-displayed ecstasy, allowing gravity to slam him back down, deeper and deeper onto Tarn’s frantic spike. Every shift and shimmy had Tarn seeing stars, his universe collapsing in, until nothing existed beyond Shockwave.   
      
And really, such revery should be reserved for The Cause. The Decepticon Code. Megatron. This hold Shockwave had on him was practically sacrilegious, blasphemy of the highest order. But then Shockwave’s valve tightens further, encasing his spike and Tarn released a trilling whine, all previous thoughts lost to him. He bucks forward, attempting in vain to dislodge his spike. But it’s sealed tight, trapped inside it’s sanctuary. His spike bursts through Shockwave’s quivering gestation tank, ripping static from Shockwave’s vox. Tarn holds him down, ruthlessly pumping.  
      
Tarn’s overload comes as little surprise. The harmonics of his voice seals their mutual destruction, and soon, Shockwave tumbles after him. Shockwave’s optic flares white, as Tarn’s transfluid pours inside him. It fills Shockwave, who mewls in satisfaction as his tank buckles outward, mesh stretching. As the flow thins, Shockwave’s single optic dims in content, sleepily.  
      
With a contented huff, Tarn releases Shockwave, slipping his spike out of the drowsy scientist. He’s already half-way to slumber himself as he drags them to the thread-bare cot in the corner of the room. One of Shockwave’s fins flickers lazily, fanning the air. Gently, Tarn slicks it down, listening to the quiet murmurs of his partner. For a click, he watches the systematic rhythm of Shockwave’s chest, before drifting off into his own post-interface haze.  
  
*****  
  
Shockwave’s armor bore only a few minimal dents and scrapes, excepting a single, lengthy gash running up his calf where Tarn had gotten overexcited. Paint ribboned off the scratch in dried, spotted clumps revealing matte grey underwires. It was nothing new to either of them and Tarn watched with fascination as the repair nanites did their work, the only evidence of their affair disappearing before his optics. Almost, only evidence. Shockwave’s mid-section remained bloated, though the swelling had significantly decreased.  
      
“It was enjoyable, as usual,” Tarn offered, tossing him a cleaning rag. Shockwave merely nodded, accepting the cloth in silence.   
      
Tarn watched him scrub a few clicks, before turning to inspect himself. Straightening his side panels, he buffed out a stubborn spot. Tarn’s post absolutely demanded perfection and he’d be damned before showing up to Megatron’s war room with sub-par plating or transfers. With his grooming accomplished, he bade his farewell, a simple, “until next time.”  
      
Shockwave blinked up at him, owlishly, “I will forward my available times for next orns consideration. You may see yourself out.”  
      
Tarn snorted, those was downright glowing remarks from Shockwave. Still, he offered a quick peck to the cyclop’s fins, before withdrawing from the bunker, already checking his internal comms for messages. In his brief time offline his inbox had already filled. Several new, possible coordinates for traitors from Kaon, and the new Decepticon monthly newsletter had arrived, as well as several spam letters from Praxian princes. Tarn rolled his optics, deleting them one-by-one as he rounded the corner.  
  
Shockwave watched Damus leave. Remotely locking the door behind him, Shockwave stretched, crossing the room. With his good hand, he plucked a sanitized pipette from a drawer, sliding it into his sensitive valve, drawing out the excess transfluid with practiced patience. Carefully, he transferred the viscous material into a vial and labeled it with clumsy print. Stopping the lid, he deposited the vial onto a rack in the storage freezer, where it sits amongst it’s peers. Point 1% transfluid, after all, was limitless in it’s applications.


End file.
